


Kiss It Better, Kiss It Back Together

by crossroadswrite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/pseuds/crossroadswrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tumblr prompt: stiles is cursed by a witch to forget the person he loves the most so everyone thinks it's Lydia but it's not and the only way to get the memories back is through a kiss</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss It Better, Kiss It Back Together

**Author's Note:**

> i finished and edited this at 3 am keep that in mind.

 Stiles would like for you to know this was _not_ his fault.

Okay, so maybe it might’ve been a little bit his fault.

 _Maybe_ there had been a witch gone feral, and maybe that witch had been threatening the pack so maybe, there might have been the distinct possibility of Stiles – and again this is all hypothetical – have confronted her, ran for his life and then consequently killed said witch.

And maybe that witch happened to have a girlfriend and maybe that girlfriend might’ve been so grief stricken that she cursed Stiles with… _something_. He doesn’t remember what it was.

Wait, what’s he doing in the woods, again?

He’s not supposed to be here.

He shrugs at himself and then turns around and walks back home.

«»

It’s not even five in the afternoon when he gets a frantic call from Scott, which okay. Not cool, dude. Stiles just wanted to play some disturbing Japanese horror games. Not get his afternoon spoiled by whatever new supernatural creature came into town.

“Where are you? We found that witch. She’s _dead_ Stiles.”

Stiles knits his eyebrows at his screen, “What witch?” he asks confusedly. What are you talking about, Scotty.”

“What- Stiles. The _witch_. She almost killed Isaac. She almost killed Allison. _That_ witch.”

Stiles huffs and pushes off his desk, “Why do you only tell me these things _after_ the action is already dead, uh Scotty?”

There’s silence in the other end, “Stiles. Are you okay?”

“Peachy keen, Scotty. Why?”

Scott’s voice is careful on the phone, “Stiles you were there.”

“I- was?”

“D-don’t you remember.”

Stiles rolls away from his desk and stands up, suddenly agitated. He _tries_ to remember and comes up with gaps. A lot of last week just a dark swirling void of emptiness.

“Scott- Scott I think the witch might’ve done something to me. I don’t remember anything from last week.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, “I’m coming to get you, don’t go anywhere,” he demands and then hangs up.

Stiles blinks down at his phone for a second too long and then jerks into motion, rolling his corkboard out of his closet and setting on retracing every single step he remembers making during the past few days.

«»

Scott drives him to Deaton’s where the good doctor himself sets to probe and poke at him and then unsurprisingly comes up empty. They don’t know exactly what Stiles forgot or how or why.

“I’d say it’s nothing to worry about,” Dr. Deaton dismisses.

“What if whatever killed the witch comes for Stiles next?” Scott demands.

Dr. Deaton grabs Stiles forearm and lifts it up so his scraped knuckles and a few cuts and bruises are on full display, “Mr. Stilinski how did you get this?”

He frowns down at his marred skin, “I don’t remember.”

“I’d say this- _curse_ was a failsafe made by the witch Mr. Stilinski killed. Maybe it was supposed to have another effect and it backfired,” he muses.

“Wow, you’re wrong,” a new voice says and a girl walks into the room cooly.

She’s the average kind of pretty, with an overall hipster-y vibe to her.

Scott bristles and emits this low growl, nose twitching twice before he sneezes violently.

“Witch?” Stiles guesses and the girl nods.

“Hey, I’m Harmon. Sorry about the,” she waves her hand faintly in Stiles’ direction, “curse.”

“You did this to me?”

She doesn’t look particularly apologetic, “In my defense you _had_ just killed my girlfriend of five years, so.”

“In my defense she was trying to kill my pack, so.”

Harmon looks unbearably sad, “I told her not to mess with blood magic, but did she listen to me. _No_. Of course not, the idiot,” she sighs and seems to shake herself a little bit, “Anyways. Spell, curse, whatever you want to call it. Can be broke with true love’s kiss or whatever,” she rolls her eyes a little bit, “I don’t make the rules. Love spells are always broken like this.”

“So he has to kiss Lydia?”

Stiles shrugs a little and thinks about the love of his life, Lydia Martin, finds that the sentiment is displaced, somehow.

“That’s not too bad,” he shrugs, “Lydia kinda likes me now she might even take one for the team.”

He doesn’t think he loves Lydia Martin.

He wonders when the hell that happened.

Then again, if the gaps in the last few years are anything to go by maybe he’s wrong. It’s not like he remembers much.

Harmon frowns, “You shouldn’t be able to remember who they are,” she shrugs dismissively then, apparently not being able to afford giving a shit about what are clearly not her problems, “maybe I fucked up. Oh well. It was decidedly unpleasant to meet you, see you never.”

“Wait,” Scott calls, “why did you tell us that?”

Harmon looks down at the ground, “Courtesy. Retribution of a favor.”

“I killed your girlfriend.”

She snaps her eyes towards him, “And if you hadn’t I would have to.”

“Oh.”

Her jaw clenches and she doesn’t even spare another word to them, just turns on her heels and walks out the door.

“Well,” Dr. Deaton says slowly, “I believe there’s your answer.”

«»

They drive to Lydia’s house.

She’s not impressed with them.

“No,” she says flat out and final.

“Wha-“ Stiles puts a hand to his chest, mock offended, “You wound me, Lyds, you do.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, “Look. You and I both know you got past your crush on me eons ago. You can deal with a little lost time and I can deal with not having a certain werewolf looking at me like I just kicked his puppy.”

Stiles frowns at her, “I have no idea what that means,” he tells her earnestly.

Lydia rolls her eyes, “Of course you don’t, now shoo,” she makes a little motion with her hand, “I’m entertaining.”

Stiles raises his eyebrow and peeks over her shoulder, his eyes meeting with Erica’s over the back of the couch. Erica wiggles her fingers at him and he wiggles back.

“I’m high fiving Erica after this, I hope you’re aware.”

Lydia slams the door in his face.

“Well… that was fun,” Stiles says in the flattest tone he can possibly manage.

It’s probably going to drive him crazy, trying to figure out _exactly_ what happened to him. He’s not about to push Lydia on this if she really doesn’t want to, though.

He likes to think he’s not that kind of person. Not that kind of friend.

Because that’s what they are now, that’s what he feels like they are. _Friends_.

“Sorry, bro,” Scott says in commiseration, throwing an arm over Stiles’ shoulder and walking him back towards the car, “It’s just a few days with gaps right. You won’t even be bothered by it by, like, tomorrow.”

“Right,” Stiles says and neglects to mention that some of the gaps go back years, neglects to mention how some memories seem incomplete and chipped.

It’s nothing to worry about after all. Whoever he’s forgetting mustn’t be that important.

Scott drives him home and plays a first person shooter with him until it’s dinner time and he has to go back home.

Stiles sets himself on trying not to obsess over it too strongly.

«»

In retrospect he should’ve thought that maybe that witch hadn’t fucked up and he had just forgotten one of the most important people in his life.

He’ll beat himself up over it forever.

«»

It’s Sunday and the morning is just dying down, the sun too high in the sky now that it catches Stiles’ window and lets too bright light filter in.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t close the blinds and lock it. For some reason he had felt like it was the wrong thing to do, and that feeling had been so persistent that Stiles had just left his window exactly how it was.

He nuzzles his pillow and huffs a breath, drifting between sleep and wondering what he could have for lunch.

Maybe he could make something? And by something he means a sandwich because he’s feeling too lazy to actually throw together anything resembling a real meal.

He’s so distracted wondering just how big he can make his sandwich that he almost doesn’t hear the window creaking faintly as it opens upwards.

 _Almost_.

Stiles’ eyes shoot wide open and he curls the hand skimming the floor under the bed, until he grasps his baseball bat.

Someone lands with a soft thud, almost inaudible against his hardwood floor and Stiles bolts out of the bed, trips and falls in a tangled sheet mess on the floor, bat still faintly grasped in his fingers.

There’s a short huff like the begging of a laugh that died before it could exist.

Stiles quickly disentangles himself and gets to his feet, holding a wide stance, perfect to swing the bat at a moment’s notice.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my room?” he shouts at the intruder.

The man in front of him – dark hair, light eyes, cute bunny teeth just peeking through his slightly open lips, soft Henley stretching over his wide broad shoulders and _wow he’s hot, okay_ – freezes in place, for a precious second or two his being going completely still.

And then he scowls.

“Drop the bat, Stiles. This isn’t funny.”

Stiles grips his bat tighter and takes a step towards his door, swallowing down nervously.

“Ho-how do you know my name?” he demands, “Have you been _stalking_ me. Because- because my dad is the Sheriff. He’ll shoot you.”

The man takes a step forward and Stiles stumbles back a step, because he’s a rational person and ignoring the side of him that’s just saying he should step forward with a smirk and a taunt is clearly supposed be ignored.

God when did his death wish get this strong. He doesn’t remember this happening.

The again he doesn’t remember an impressive amount of things.

“You- you don’t-“ the man frowns , his eyes looking at Stiles and his heart summersaults like a trigger response, “Stiles, are you okay?” he seems concerned now.

“I’d be better if there wasn’t a random _deviant_ in my room,” he squeaks and okay maybe deviant isn’t the right word. Not with the way his hair looks soft like he just rolled out of bed and the cute little thumbholes in his Henley. Did Stiles mention he has his thumbs actually hooked through the thumb holes.

If this man wasn’t breaking into Stiles’ house he’d appreciate him much more.

The man reaches into his pocket and Stiles points his bat at him, “What are you doing? Hands where I can see them or I’m calling the cops.”

The man winces a little and Stiles has the feeling like he just did something wrong and should fix it.

“I’m taking out my phone, okay. And calling Scott.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “How do you know, Scott?”

“He’s-“ the man falters, “pack, kind of.”

Stiles is a little curious, maybe that’s why he allows him to reach into his pack and take out – thankfully – a cellphone.

The man taps at it before pressing it to his hear, “Scott,” he growls into the receiver, “mind telling me why Stiles doesn’t remember who I am,” he demands, “what’s wrong with him. Why haven’t you taken him to Deaton.”

Stiles watches him closely, sees how he frowns at the phone in what seems like a long pause before he repeats himself, “Scott!”

“Why didn’t- are you se-“ he growls, “well come here. Right now,” a pause, “no I don’t care where you’re about to shove your dick, Scott. Scott- Scott- Scott!” another growl “I don’t need to know that about my beta, Scott. We need a pack meeting. Yes, right now. Call every- _I’m not being dramatic_. He’s about to hit me with a bat. That’s not the point, I know I’d heal. _Goddamnit, Scott._ Just- Hurry up so we can _fix this_.”

“Lemme talk with him,” Stiles demands, because nothing actually guarantees him that it’s actually Scott on the phone.

The man looks up at him and slowly passes over the phone, clearly afraid that Stiles with turn skittish and crawl under the bed like a scared squirrel or something.

“Scott?” he asks into the receiver.

“Seriously, Stiles. Derek Hale?” is the first thing he hears.

“I think I’d be offended if I _knew_ who Derek Hale fucking was. Is that the burly man in my room. Because let me tell you he is very burly,” Stiles peers at the man in question, “and grumpy. Kind of cute, though. I guess,” he squints at him.

Scott makes a retching noise, “Just- don’t hit him or throw anything at him. He’s nice I promise. Well. Kind of. He has days. Mostly bad days. But there have been a good few days too. He hasn’t even summersault out of a window this week or anything!”

“You’re not helping the situation,” Stiles tells him.

“Trust me, bro. You’d just end up breaking your bat. It’s not worth it, really. Hang tight, I’ll come get you in five.”

The line goes dead and he throws the phone back at _Derek_ , who catches it with werewolf precision.

“So, Mr. Derek Hale,” he moves carefully, until the backs of his knees hit the bed and then plops down on it, “It looks like it’s just you and me until Scott gets here.”

Derek looks uncomfortable, eyeing the window consideringly.

“No. No, no. No summersaults out of windows. Sit down, we need to figure out why I don’t remember you.”

Derek kind of glares and purposefully drags Stiles’ desk chair towards the window, sitting down on it.

Stiles watches him intently, dropping the end of the bat to the floor with an aggressive thunk and leaning slightly on it.

“So,” he starts.

Derek stares, lips pressed in a thin line and shoulders drawn tight in tension.

“Scott mentioned a witch,” he finally volunteers, “I came over to see if you were okay.”

Stiles could just bash himself over the head with the baseball bat because _of course that’s why_.

Honestly he’s blaming not thinking of it first on just having been startled awake by a handsome stranger breaking into his bedroom.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Yes.”

Stiles glares at him. He doesn’t see why he’s allegedly in love with this man.

Derek does this little thing where his lips curl up, smug and cocky and thoroughly pleased with himself and his bad joke and okay no, yeah, Stiles can see _exactly_ why he’s allegedly in love with this man.

“ _Rude_.”

“I’m not the one waving a bat around.”

“I’m not the one breaking into the Sheriff’s son’s room,” he throws back.

Derek flinches the tinniest bit, a blink and you miss it move, the scowl returning to his face.

Stiles feels like he just punched a bunny in its cute bunny tummy and immediately regrets everything, then he remembers how Derek had said he had come to check on him. Because he was _worried_ probably.

Stiles is beyond charmed by how this surly monster truck of a man stumbled his way into his room because he was _worried_. It’s- it’s a sweet move. Not a lot of people check in on Stiles just because they heard something might’ve happened.

He still remembers how everyone dismissed his bruises after Gerard beat him up, accepting a lie too easily.

Everyone but his dad and maybe _someone else_ because there’s just a swirling nothingness about that time period, a gap between watching Lydia save Jackson and getting back home.

“Thanks,” he says, “for checking up on me,” he shrugs awkwardly, “it’s sweet.”

Derek’s mouth drops a little, a fraction of an inch, color tinting his ears and down his neck. He snaps his eyes away from Stiles’ and settles them on the floor.

“I- it’s- you’re _pack_ ,” he mumble-growls and Stiles has never been so charmed.

“Huh, you’re pretty cute,” he grins, “No wonder I’m in love with you.”

Derek jerks so badly, Stiles is concerned for a moment he’ll topple the chair over and fall right out of the window. And then he goes very, very still, wide eyes blinking at Stiles.

He winces, “I’m guessing that was new information.”

Derek drops his mouth open. Closes it again, exhales roughly.

Stiles might’ve accidentally broken him.

“So, um, that witch kind of cursed me not to remember the one person I love. And I kind of need to kiss you to remember you again,” he says awkwardly, feeling his cheeks heat up, burning all the way to the tips of his ears.

God when he gets his memories back he’s going to beat himself up forever. Especially for having to ask for a kiss like this. He’s not sure why he feels so much like he’s stealing a kiss from Derek and why it feels like such a dirty thing to do, but it does.

Derek probably doesn’t even like him. Derek probably only tolerates him and his checking up on Stiles didn’t even _really_ mean anything. He’s pack. Derek might just feel responsible for him or something.

Derek gets up from his chair and strides towards Stiles, so painfully gentle in taking his face between his hands that he drops his bat on the floor in surprise.

“I-“ he says, swallows down, mouth dropping because wow this is close. Derek’s really close right now.

“I’m going to kiss you now. And then-“ Derek looks away for three suspenseful seconds as if gathering courage, “and then I’m going to ask you out. On a date. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles breathes out, one hand reaching up so he can loop his fingers around one of Derek’s wrists loosely.

Derek stares at him, he just- stares. For what feels like an eternity, clearly searching for something before he gives this little nod with his head and leans carefully over.

His lips catch on Stiles’, smooth against shaped and he gasps, fingers squeezing Derek’s wrist, eyes fluttering closed against his will because _ohmygod Derek Hale is kissing him_.

It’s chaste and over too fast but then again every kiss they’ll share will be over too fast because he just wants to kiss him for the rest of his life.

Derek pulls back, hands still on both his cheeks, gaze heavy.

“Ohmygod,” Stiles whispers and then louder, “ _ohmygod_! I just confessed my undying love for you. _Accidentally_. Why did you let me _do that_. I had a seven year pl-“

Derek kisses him again, and it’s not really a kiss. It’s a smile pressed against slack lips turned into an approximation of a kiss because for some reason Derek is an idiot that needs to pull back every half a second to look Stiles in the eyes before dipping back down for a kiss.

“Seriously there were going to be fireworks and ba-“

“You can’t just-“

Kiss. A dip of tongue.

Stiles breathes out, grins, “Rude.”

“But you love me,” he says and he trips over the words, hesitates on them and his tone is so low that if they weren’t this close Stiles is certain that he would miss it.

“Yeah. Yeah.” He licks his lips, “How- how about you?”

Derek lays another kiss upon his lips and somehow it’s even gentler than the others. It’s almost _aching_.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Stiles beams so hard he’s afraid his face will get stuck that way. Goes in for another kiss, slow and unhurried. He loops a hand around the nape of Derek’s neck and pulls him down and on top of him.

Which, of course, is when Scott comes barrel rolling through the window, “I’m here, I’m here, don’t’ kill each- _oh_. Ewww, guys seriously, I don’t need to _see_ that.”

Stiles flips him off over Derek’s back.

«»

“What do you mean me kissing him wasn’t supposed to work?”

Scott shrugs, “Dr. Deaton said because it was true love’s kiss or whatever it would only work if you two loved each other, and because you had forgotten him, well.”

Erica throws a pillow at his face, “You fell in love with him again during _one_ conversation. You’re disgusting.”

Derek, who had been standing close to Stiles, is blushing adorably and then leaning over and doting a quick kiss on his cheek.

Stiles can’t even be bothered about being so utterly gone on this man he literally fell back in love with him in the span of ten minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> *'this is why i'm hot' playing in the background as i replace the word hot with the word trash*


End file.
